Sparrows of Mohenjodaro

Past is a dead city and writing is  often archaeology.Strange to be here.Silence is not so  silent  but sings like  evening sparrows.I walked alone and will leave.let the sparrows remain

Wise behind me

Like a patch of baldness
reality unveils in the hind side.
To know real things about oneself
ask the wise behind you


Now it is time to look back.(Though it is stylish to say otherwise-'there is no looking back').Every thought has its own history.Thus looking back is also another way of looking.Another way of seeing.
How did I know about a thing called 'blog'.It is an article about some blog....I can remember the name 'river bent'.So there might have been a thought related to that.(like history, there is no linearity in thoughts.Truth is,'we' like linearity and order.I am not sure whether history is essentially a retrospective tale of linear events.Reality,for sure is not a conveyor belt full of clues leading to meaningful events....)
I was alone.Only on weekends I could go to my in-law's house and see my baby and wife.Though I was living in the same house,nothing looked as it were.i mean..everything was the same.But every day after work,when i came back from work nothing was there in that house.She has taken everything and gone.The tables,chairs,books..everything looked same.But they were not there.They had followed her as  if she was their nursery school teacher.She owned the soul of that house.For the rest of the three months,I had to to do something.Then blog came.
I realised, when left alone,I was a confused soul.A package of questions.A questionnaire.
I was new to English.Though I had spent some years outside this country,my language had its limitations.Thoughts when edited looked attractive,but lacked sincerity.So I decided to write without editing.
I started to write about what I saw directly. When I looked out of my office room window,it was  raining and I wrote about it.That was interesting.There was a 'Jiddu Krishnamurthy influence' in it.I have been reading him from 10th standard onward.Even before that I read a few articles about Henry David Thoroe.Then I read Walden which was another major influence.Jiddu's commentaries on living was a major source of influence.I used to write such notes mimicking him.It was my personal notes.I could see my every day thoughts at the end of the day.It was also a very good way of de-constructing oneself which i understood from  my 'post-modernist' friends.
The idea of a 'painting seeing the world' came to me when i saw a handicapped man sitting in front of his house.I was walking to the bus stop.For the rest of the day,I thought about him.Then it suddenly occurred to me, that we are all like him.So I wanted to do a story on it.
As I already told,this was a test run.I tried many names.'me','smile' etc.Even the "keyboardsculpturer" was a mistake.One of my best friends in this blog world later corrected me.Then only I knew about it.Then i understood the value of errors.It corrects you a lot.Also they are the lost keys to unknown worlds.Somebody called the writer 'man in painting'.A new name was born.
Nobody was reading my posts.Then I forced some of my colleagues to read it. As it was boring and was in contrast with the character that what I am in the practical world ,nobody really appreciated it.Then I started marketing myself.I went door to door.I read every blog.Gave good comments and invited them to read my blog. I posted in the social network groups.Every body returned their favours by giving good comments about the posts.So this is it.
Still I kept on posting.The bad English in it created certain patterns which was interesting.Somebody liked it. Somebody doesn't.Somebody mocked it.Somebody said it was great.Somebody said it was pseudo-intellectual.Some body asked who i am.
Now when I look back, these different comments are the most valuable asset this blog has generated .It is not said because it will yield any result.There is no future for this, nor is it going to end.Very few read it now, because it is not a result of hard labour or supreme quality.It is casual work.But for the writer it had yielded him like anything.It had taught him about fiction and reality.Like 'man in painting' I am also both.Real and fiction.Every moment I have to be aware of this balance.The balance that I have to maintain while walking over the 'tight rope'.
these are simple things.to keep anything simple you have to leave it as it is.Because the writer is recording his thoughts it is not permenant.At that time itself I knew that things will change. and...
Things have changed . a lot.I was a teacher while I started writing this.Now i am a student.I was a doctor who wasn't practicing.I may or may not practice in future .But I will share what I know about healing.
What about me.The practical me is ordinary.Conservative.Funny.Useless.Contradictory.Penny less.It is always better to leave it as it is.
At least for this time and space, who am I?
I am Man In Painting.
the most hopeless practical idea still wins.Most people who know me really often ask me this.Of all the activities you have done will this make a difference?
How much did you earn ?
The answer is obvious .Money is the most unreal real thing. People rate you based on how much you control because money means control.
People tell me I might have made money out of this space.Some body might have.Who knows. who bothers.
I have achieved what it was most important.
 ignoring the unimportant.
Before leaving I want to tell you that these were the wise men behind me.I thank you all for being my teachers.
people who invented and designed this possibility called blog
Rakesh Vanamali
Manorathan
Devika Jyothi
Tuna fish
Aria
Ushapisharody
Ashenglow
Mampi
Manoranjini
Karthika
Rushabh
Old monk
Amateur writer
A.J Johnson
Roopa
Salil
The wandering Gypsy
Paritosh
Brocas area
Swati
Sashu
Sheeza
Survivor
Ani
Raaji
Winnie the poohi
Keshi
Debashish
Cindrella
deepsat
Joe
Akshaya
Sameera and many many more....
Take Care
bye

How to smile back at a beautiful tree?

Yesterday
in the middle of the town
I saw a  tree.
It was standing there,
smiling to me.
I didn't know
how to  give it back.
Then  I realised
no great book can ever teach you
how to smile back
at a beautiful tree.

Life is a flower

Never try to open a  bud
to know what is inside
better  wait till it bloom.

life is one such flower.

Who we really are!

 I talked about trees,birds and animals
about mountains, rivers and clouds
about everything I could know
and lectured to the world about who they all are..
then I fell asleep
In my dreams, I heard them murmuring..
"poor chap! he was so busy telling the world
what he think about who we all are
but he never allowed us to tell him
who we really are!

Uncomplicated things

Though I often feel like a wish after its fullfilment
or like a door which can never be opened otherwise
certain things still inspires me to live.
uncomplicated things.
like those  hugs  my granpa used to give me .

Me watching Me.

Somebody asked 'who are you?

Speaking about oneself is boring.The very sentence I just completed is a lie. I am interested in me,that is why this writing happens.I mean,most writings happened.This language is new to me.Not that I haven't learned it in school.I just 'learned' it in school.But the real unlearning of this language was done through this space.As one of my dearest friend pointed out the word 'keyboardsculpturer'itself is not there.I may now claim that it was invented by meThat is how a spelling mistake is invented.Most of the time,except for those small posts,it was direct recording of my thoughts.Thoughts seldom follow grammar,atleast in my case.Spelling mistakes followed my grammar mistakes.My words survived just because they were born without much intention.(who said so?)Whenever they had intensions they looked intelligent and became cunning.(isn't it?)Writing here is just like writing on a wall.let me stop and just read backward.

Embarrassing!

In every sentence,every word...there is this 'me'.dictating everything..I may develop a language which may eliminate 'me'..but that is still the problem.that very big 'me'.Writing like this suddenly makes me feel like standing naked while being monitered constantly through some closed circuit camera.Me watching Me.

Me hunting Me

My eyes are hungry.They love to prey on anything.Like hyenas they shamelessly devour even carcasses.Sound waves like warplanes lose their track in the cunning curvatures of the twin tunnels of my inner ears . Nostrils with their invisible sticky tongues open their mouths and wait for regular preys . Skin spreads like a giant squid and sqeeze anything that comes into its reach. Tongue rolls out like a carpet laid with poisoned flowers.Then there are multiple hurricanes destructing one landscape and creating another one inside the inner terraine...I am that monster.I am my own body.Together we hunt that existing yet non existing nothingness called the self.Haven't you seen my self?Me hunting Me

Reason for a Soliloquy

Because I am not blessed enough like those morning birds, a reason is needed to continue my soliloquy. Is it a material reason like money or a psychological one like fame? Is it anything related to the desire to get connected with other minds? Is it connected to that age old pseudo-myth of creativity? Is it because of boredom? Is it just because of the desire for feel ‘separate ‘and unique? Is it natural? Is it because of a healthy mind or is it something generated from a pathological one? is it not an excuse to allow the mind to wander again? Is it because of the frustrations from the past? Is it because of one’s own modest material conditions? Is it because of fear of social death? Is it because of one’s own ego which even doesn’t allow me to enter in to the zone of ’selling ‘even though I have to ‘buy’ everything which have prize tags ?Is it because of shame when I think of my own price tag? Is it because of overvaluation of one’s ego or undervaluation of his spirit? Or is it because I question the very idea of valuation itself? Is it because of the innate nature of mind which is caught in the habit of endless chattering? Is it because I am rich enough that my poverty is no more a problem to me? Or is it otherwise? Isn’t it not my own mind the real reason behind? Or is it not my mind that talks now and then reasons for a reason?

All questions contain its own answers. In another words, they are the answers. Now I can see light through that window. It is the beginning of another day. There are fewer thoughts now. Lesser that when I started .I just feel that there is no definite reason for a soliloquy. But a reason can definitely end it. Causes, talkative mind, and results - they all are one and the same. They seem to be different only after becoming the past.

I hope a reason will not end this soliloquy. Also I don’t want to start this day with the planting of another tiny but potential seed which may grow into a thought tree by the end of this day. Instead of that I am going to listen to the sound of the Chinese flute.(www.youtube.com/i_B8H956_rg)
How did you start your day today?
Do tell me.

A black and white umbrella and the man who was shy to use it.

He had an old umbrella. A black and white one. Not because of the colours, it was called so but because of a black and white picture on it. To be precise, pictures of some old motorbikes were printed on it- in black and white. To a lesser extend it can also be called so because it affirmed certain facts about him in black and white. This man seldom used that umbrella. Not because it was old, but because it always invited somebody’s attention. Always a smart umbrella raised expectations about the owner who hides behind it. This umbrella, irrespective of its owner had a unique charisma. The man, on the other hand, was too shy to use it as his regular one. In his youth, he thought that he had the capacity to become the centre of attraction. Wherever he went, people noticed his presence. It was only in the absence of that umbrella did he realise the ordinary nature of his existence.Slowly; he started to use other types of umbrellas. Most of the time it was the usual, regular black ones. But the desire to become the rightful owner of that charismatic umbrella always remained with him. Both rain and sun, taught him the need of a useful protective shade. Nowadays he uses that old black and white umbrella. He loves the crowd who loves his umbrella. He also enjoys the expressions they make when their expectations are wrecked as they see the owner behind that umbrella.

Waiting for tomorrow

It was early morning.He was alone but happy and calm.But it is only one way of looking at it.There was rain,there were trees surrounding that place,a few people chanting words which were supposed to be auspicious,a sleepy cow, a few birds and their early morning conversations,the garland vendors, streaks of morning light starting to appear in the sky like the fresh incisions in dark skin and the usual train of thoughts running along the track and often beyond it..Such few noticed things and millions of other unnoticed things were there.Yet the man in the later half of that same day,when started describing his day ended up in monotony.Why? May be because all those pleasant memories or the calmness in the morning cannot not be reproduced again by reporting it with this machine.To do that he has to wait for tomorrow and then he may watch what he missed.Life is never a tragedy,but trying to report it retrospectively makes it a tragedy.

Crows,stock market folks,man with a machine,the train and a retrospective non sense called life

It is the end of yet another busy day for those crows. They all look tired, but are still active. They are the ones who are really involved in the serious business of life. Busier and serious than many of those stock market folks who are in the middle of some heated conversation on the other side of this railway station..Both share the same space. One group stands on the platform and discusses the virtual aspects of living. The other group keeps themselves down, in between the rails, live that real ‘thing ‘or no ‘thing’ called life. They both meet here daily but fail to recognize each other. How strange this thing called life is! Another person who is bored, just because he has a machine with him tries to connect those scenes and create some sense but fails miserably. Neither those crows nor those men know about this man who tries to get rid of his boredom with a machine that can underline all the spelling errors he keeps on making with somewhat serrated redlines. It is a wonderful machine. But this man is stupid. He is trying to make sense by trying to convert the most sensible thing called life into some symbolic representation of the same. Suddenly the train in which the man sits starts moving. Everything is broken shaken and taken away. The scene vanishes into nothing. He tries to remember the scene and wants to complete the non sense. But it is already gone and will never come back again. The crows who were full of life, the stock market folks who believed they were fighting for a life, the lifeless railway platform, that man who was neither dead nor living but bored, the thoughts that lived only in his brain, that machine which converted living thoughts in to non living group of letters called words, the whole essence called life and the retrospective non sense it creates about itself, is gone. Now what remains is the movement of this train and memories inside a brain. Suddenly the train starts to run inside and through the rails to a railway station where it is yet another busy day for the crows. They are the ones……

Tree Guru and me

By shedding off its leaves
a tree tried to teach me something.

During that whole winter
I served my tree guru.

When Spring came
I stole all the golden yellow flowers
and ran away.

Mind is a verb and never a noun

'mind is a verb and never a noun
it keeps moving'
after typing philosophy ,I continue my race.
truth ,like a roadside mountain waits for the one who can climb it.

all are clones!

me told I
"mind is a verb, noun is the clone"
I became angry and shouted
"Nouns rule,mind it!
me laughed
"just mind your mind"
no mind ever said"all are clones!

Things beyond yes or no

Yes, not much to cheer
in this month,dear
but don’t you remember?
its our own December!

You may reason
‘it was another season,
and love is pain
more loss than gain’

It is true, many promises still remain
but believe that all are not in vain
though nowadays ,I may not
wake you and quote
‘In each drop of dew
I see you’
as love,like a single child
is wild
cannot be tamed
nor be named

love,life and rain
joy,hope and pain
are they real?
or daydreams unreal?

this season we will know
things beyond yes or no

Echoes

Baby calls her father,
gets boomeranged by her own voice
and cries.
Let her cry now
because sometime later
she too will learn
that what we know about others
are our own echoes.

The nature of desire

In the house
where the 'bou bou' lives
there is a tree
with golden flowers.

Baby doesn't like 'bou bou'
yet love flowers.
When bou bou went outside
we collected those flowers.

Baby looked for 'bou bou'
and threw the flowers away

If there is no 'bou bou'
who needs those golden flowers?

Between Blinks

On this blank screen
between two blinks
opens a rabbit hole.
I searched but missed
and got guillotined
by the cursor blade.

Memories beyond mineral water bottles.

Some memories have taste of tear
that by filters we may clear
but can never be concealed
in bottles sterile and sealed

They mushroom the seas and melt into rain
quenching the thirst of brooks in the brain..

Man In Painting Fades away....

Was it an 'april to april' thing?like flu,it appeared and vanished quickly.But the iatrogenic complications lasted for almost one full season.On the very first attempt the impossibility and futility of 'seeing' was revealed.The desire itself was an error,an abberation.It soon died down, but the ripples lasted for almost one year.Most of the time it was a dictionary of errors.(even though at times errors may act as lost keys of the rented mansions in which we all consciously or unconsciously live).It was supposed to be against 'thought'.but most of the 'ripples'it created, generated new ones.It was disheartening to see 'thoughts creating more thoughts'....
Thus Man in Painting fades away,like that occasional flu....

an igloo wish of a traveller lost

when winter winds freeze my blood
i remember the colour red.
to search and reach my igloo lane
let red words rain in my sleepy brain

'Thou shall never Kill'

during calm hours,
before a twister,
an exodus of ants
try to cross
a hissing proboscis..

sad,real and tragic.
poetic possibilities.
surreal soup for souls...
but
i switched off the vaccum cleaner and waited till they cross.

boring and non rhyming,
this poem is declared dead.

family reach anthill
'thou shall never kill'.

Secret of Happiness.

Baby see a butterfly
and is happy.
Baby see no butterfly
and is happy.
to be happy
no need of butterfly.

Rear-view mirrors

Objects are closer than they appear
we never see the world before it disappear
world through words have errors
and words are rear-view mirrors.

!&i

i see the world

float over the sky.

baby crawls to me

and poke my nose.

sky start to float

over the world again !

Milk Teeth Tattoo.

Milk teeth 
teach me
life
a smile

by tattoo knife.

Drops of time.

like eyedrops

time blinds

my view

and opens

million new

Tale of a Virus who died of Insomnia.

A virus won a jackpot .
'a trip to budha's brain'!
But after some days
a crystal coffin returned.
the last words of the virus
were found in its travel diary.
" I died of insomnia.
How can I sleep
when there is always light?

(Wish you all a happy new year!
love you all )

Foreign Influence

A new word was born.
Old words were skeptical.
One murmured to another .
"I doubt foreign influence".

Lives of Synonyms

Like  blunt edges  of surgeon's knives
during siesta hours of eventful days
with expressions neither wry nor cry
synonyms live their seasonal lives.

Gossiping about God.

Me:Boss, why do we kill each other?
Boss: Because you all have forgotten the purpose of life.
Me : Will we ever remember it again?
Boss:Only when you all stop gossipping about me.

Twins

Boss,each time you flash light upon me why that stupid thunder?
Child, like meanings and words,truths and lies,they too are twins.

CLICK!

"God!how do jokes click?"
"Can you handle the secret?"
"Boss!I can handle anything"
"Wow!kid,that just clicked!"

It is raining in the city of Pompei

There are many nights inside a rainy day. I woke up into one of them with the remains of an unfinished dream pooled in the grooves of my rugged consciousness. Sounds rained first and the translucent liquid flowing along with it was forgotten at once. All the other senses were silenced by this ruthless attack and within no time all the lesser sounds other that the sounds of rain were callously swallowed. Everything around was getting mutated. I felt like lying alone in a vertical chamber dug in the middle of a roaring stadium and was slowly been pulled up just to get slaughtered by bloodthirsty gladiators. I cupped and opened my ears continuously and could hear the flapping sounds of two enormous wings. I tried to open my eyes and ‘see’ things. But my eyes couldn’t remember how it was seeing things before. The calendar on the wall with red-circled working days, red holidays and black normal days, the ringed transparent well made out of the bottom of a plastic bottle which I used as a pencil stand , my rusty table fan with dark green leaves and the silver snout always ready to get replaced as the propellor of any fighter craft, the pink waste basket surrounded by crumbled peices of paper in the right corner of the room reminding me of lost trajectories and failed ‘baskets’...Everything eyes could see was instantaneously killed by the brutal invasion of this avalanche of sounds and my room remained there like the city of Pompei .I opened the windows and saw hundreds of enormous silver legged stilt walkers running across the garden towards me.....

In Company of God.

"What is your job?
after being stranded inside
I ask the lift operator.
He smiles,then replies
"To give you company
till the power returns "

IF YOU LOVE MAGIC...

Like inverted cards ,
there are many nights
in a rainy day.
If you love magic
never ask the magician
to reveal holy secrets!

Going to moon

All are talking about 'going to moon'.It is good to go to the moon.But more important is the thought of going to the moon.Why do people want to go to the moon?Is it because going to moon is a challenge?Is it because as somebody said "we will cross our own limits".By going to moon what are the "limits" that we are crossing?.Are we doing it for satisfaction? Others say"Going to moon will make some parts of our brain very strong.Those parts which are good in calculations.Those parts which say"because we see smoke ,there is fire"". Brain is a strange organ.Though it is the centre of intelligence , as an organ it does not have any intelligence.Is satisfaction a sort of "emotional balance"?an absence of ripples in a lake full of gut fluids?Are we sending man to moon for this sense of emotional harmony called satisfaction?Or for the rise and fall of hormonal tsunamis inside all of us. We may build a staircase from this part of the world to that part of the moon.But it is also true that we do it for the satisfaction of a temporary mechanism called "mind" primarily designed to get rid of the fear of non existence.

Man In Painting Is Not Seeing The World

It is always difficult to see the world as it is."Seeing the world" demands techniques.A name is a technique.Without using words can we ever see the world?Without understanding concepts can we ever watch the world?It is becoming more and more difficult.Understanding something is often like playing with the dice.Who can predict what our brain brings next?But we are happy with that "feeling"called "understanding".Is "understanding something" a sort of feeling?Is it like "satisfaction"?
There is always great joy in watching things without any desire to know.But it is impossible to do that with a mind which is old and full of techniques.Playing with words is easy.But making them watch the world is not easy.Writing is always a "thing of past".Is there anything called "present tense"?We always write about things which are already gone.Writing is another technique to add spice to "that convincing story" called "me".Communication starts with the learning of techniques of story telling.Writing is the most comfortable way of re-arranging that story of "me"Me, as they say is always a "story i found to tell others"
It is always easy to tell stories and make non-sense poems but very very difficult to "see the world"
Man In Painting is not seeing the world....

... am posting this without any editing without looking back without re reading ..
loving you all.....

Chew the world when it is still a rhizome.

Mouse boy : I am frustrated.
Master : with what?
Mouse boy : with everything.
Master : so?
Mouseboy : i want to end the world.
Master : Then do it.
Mouse boy : I don't know how to.
Master : Neither do I
Mouse boy : ? ? ?
Master : There is a way to enjoy the world without ending it.
Mouse boy : how?
Master : Chew the world when it is still a rhizome.

CRIES AND WORDS

Cries from the wild
after becoming words,
are destined to search for
their own meaningful deaths
like innocent sniff dogs.

When stories of betrayal
make me cry loudly,
words remember their history
and start howling
along with me....

There is only life!

There are bad days.
There are good days.

After typing ,I looked out of the window and saw a flower.
That flower without a name taught me the following lines

There are no days,
sun makes us think so
There is only life,
undivided by days and nights.

Winning a Genie

After winning the genie
by breaking a bottle
it became my habit
to break and search.
Words ,hearts,moments
everything was broken
in search of another genie.
After becoming a failure
I found the broken bottle
and read the contest rule.
"winners should never compete again"

Smoked Brain !

To thaw my brain
I soaked it in spirit
and lighted a cigar.
I lost everything
because of that fire.
Now I have to live
selling smoked brain.
Never play with fire
near inflammables.

'RAG'GING TO RICHES SHOWS ! !

DEMO'CRAZY' !

Click the image to enlarge

KNOWING 'NO'ING

click to enlarge the image.

The King Is Naked!

Once again'reality',like an unseeded heavyweight boxer knocked out all other lightweight perceptions and left a tattoo in my brain which read'I am the king'.
I love to remain as his majesty's loyal subject.But each time the king is caught in the mesh of my rods and cons,after flip-rotations, welcomed by the' guard of honour parade of educated neurons' , and the ceremonial salute by the grey gestapo,just before the beginning of fireworks and coronation ,one small innocent yet to be educated impulse of unknown origin will peep and yell out "the king is naked".Pardon me....

Tale Of Two Neurons

Two neurons, right and left
after death went to heaven
had to stay in a single formalin jar
demanded separate accomodation
due to solid ideological reasons
"Both come from the same brain"
was the lab assistant's comment!

Mystery On A Wax Plateau

A tadpole balancing on head
teaches 'sheershasana'posture
a slave girl starts dancing
in the courtyard of bandits
thirsty lips, before the kiss
sets trap for another prey
a spearhead cleaves darkness
and probe the wound for secrets
after this night what will remain?
anthills of wax and mysteries...